


Le Language

by Al_D_Baran



Series: aphfrweek2015 [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical Hetalia, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 09:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4559301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Al_D_Baran/pseuds/Al_D_Baran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>4/7. "He only wishes he could be tall and strong like Charles, or as happy and full of joy and energy as Henri."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Language

The years have passed again. Between Kings and Queens, Francis barely feels much attachment to any ever since he’s grown up. He’s reached his teenage years, now. Looking about sixteen, Francis knows he still looks like a fourteen year-old boy. He’s barely changed, even though his body filled in where it had left him too tall and too thin before. He’s become terribly handsome; terribly popular with the Ladies and wenches, who love the soft, delicate features he has. The perfect court boy, as many say.

He’s so far from Ailein, recently. They keep correspondence, even after they have spent years together with their alliance and the war. Nowadays, this is all past. Their alliance has ended a few years before. They still exchange letters, as much as they can. Francis feel no joy like the one he feels when he opens letters from his Scottish sweetheart.

If Ailein doesn’t seem to like writing letters as much as he enjoys receiving news, Francis, for his part, loves to write. He’s come to love writing. After all, his King, Henri IV, is rather… excellent at the art of the words. His French is so  _exquisite_ , each time Francis is allowed to read a letter of his—given it isn’t too explicit, of course, Henri still considering him as a child of  _his_ —he is charmed.

Francis tries to mimic him innocently in his own letters. Spend pages worth explaining how burning his feelings are. All the answers he receives are rather bewildered. Ailein is a man of action rather than words, but he seems pleased Francis still feels so strongly for him. Francis knows they seem to be parting, but he hopes nonetheless.

The King gives him the not simply want, but  _need_  to write. He starts a diary, fills in pages over pages on small things. Speaks of the time he spends in the chapel of the Louvres, of the magnificent galleries of it. He writes about how the tables overflow with delicious food, how it is almost decadently pouring off the table. His king is a lively one; he loves to live, good food, good beer, to spend time with his children…

Francis admires him since they have met—well, since  _he_  met him. The first time he’s seen him was as he rode to battle during the turmoil of the debut of his reign. Only four years later was he crowned and, as the tradition was, it is when Francis met him. Then childless, the already middle-aged man had latched onto him, as if relieved to see his country was, rather than a pretty woman, a young teenager.

Francis isn’t sure he’s grown at all ever since, but it feels so oddly nice to be treated like his age feels. Many Kings have hated him, others have seen a messenger of God in him, asking about the fate of their battles, which one to take, who to ally with… And on that, Francis has frankly not much ideas about what they should be doing. His first instinct was to go to people he knew most; Antonio is always his first choice, yet, alliances between them never come.

He writes about how much turmoil Europe is going through; as always, he thinks as his quill runs over the paper smoothly. This time, they are about wars of religion. Huguenots and other protestants against Christians. Francis feels nothing in particular for current religion, if not bitterness. He remembers Kings who’ve hurt him for not practicing enough, cardinals and popes who glared at the pagan display he was, even when the King claimed he had an angel next to him, convinced all of his wars would be won for he had providence sitting right next to his throne.

Francis can only chuckle darkly at those thoughts. Some miracles and providences he brought, he thinks, during the Hundred Years. He was still just a child, still is according to French law. He is hidden like a burden. He only wishes he could be tall and strong like Charles, or as happy and full of joy and energy as Henri.

As unloved as he is by the people, the man has too much love to give, he thinks. Convinced he had been sterile, the man has now over a dozen children. Francis feels like he can only love them too, seeing the great love this King, one of the only he’s seen as his own offspring to call him “papa” and it is an odd feeling. There is pride and affection in it; Francis had been convinced he’d stop giving him so much attention once he would have children of his own, but the King still treats him like one of his blood.

He confesses to him, too. That he is unhappy, that under all of the joy he shows, there is much doubt and melancholy. The King’s reign is filled with conflict. Francis feels something is brewing… as nice as Henri is, Francis has seen him treat his wives and mistresses like nothing much, then write them as if they were the moon, as if they were giving up the sun’s light, stopped to care for the tides.

Henri is definitely flawed, some would say much more than Francis thinks, for they saw only some sides of him. But Francis has seen him play with his children like the simplest man, enjoy feasts like a true Gascon, grieve for the fact his people cannot eat as well as he does. He would like to be the father of France, for everyone to call him papa, too.

If Henri can be a heartless Don Juan, seduce women into do just as he pleases with beautiful, honey-like words Francis takes from him, there is only tenderness in his southern, thick, ridiculed accent. But Francis finds warmth in it. Francis finds warmth in the words he learns to dearly love from him, to write like words are a soothing pomade on burns events have left on him. Henri always finds the words to reassure him that he does well in his nation duties. The King has held him after nightmares, like a tender father, like no King has dared, either for fear of touching something too godly and be punished, or disdain.

Henri reassures him that, though he may feel small, one day, he will grow to be taller than any King, that, even after he passes, France will carry on and their country will prosper. Francis thinks, with a smile, that, after all, if Henri says it with such energy and confidence, it has to be so.

.

.

.

_Epilogue_

.

.

.

“ _J’ai tué le roi !_ ”

Francis is frozen as he sees the King gasping for air in front of them, eyes wide and scared. People are screaming outside, inside the carriage, everywhere is a wide, panicked cacophony. Henri clutches his bloody chest as people catch the murderer, Épernon is outside, somewhere… Francis realizes the King has fallen close to his laps.

His eyes are scared, as if he knows death awaits him, as if he’s known it would happen for so long. After all, sermons were saying louder than they should, that tyrannicide was forgiven by God. Francis hadn’t wanted to believe it. He weeps, runs his fingers on Henri’s cheeks, into the bloodied beard. His lungs have been touched, he guesses, teeth clattering.

There seems to be a peace in the King’s eyes as he notices him. Francis holds his hand through the chaos, kisses his knuckles like he is his liege. If only he had been strong, if only he had wanted to see something was amiss… if he had taken action. Again, he feels the weight on failure crush him. There is nothing he can do. Henri’s eyes become glassy before anyone can even pull him out of the carriage.

Francis kisses his forehead, feeling the weight of death fill the air. Henri’s long gone when they bring him out, the killer is brought away. Francis thinks of Henri’s children, of his heir.

Louis is only nine. He cannot think about telling the boy his father is dead without bursting into tears. People speak of a plot already. The next days are spent in the haze of conspiracies. What a convenient traffic jam. What was a little group of soldier doing on rue de la Ferronerie, just moments before the assassination? Ravaillac might be a madman, but there is no ways he was alone—three days between trial and murder left him far too long to be convinced to claim it was his only work.

In the same day, from the King Henri that raised heavy taxes on them, he is good king Henri, who wanted his citizens to eat boiled chicken— _poule au pot_ —and call him papa. Not anymore is he Henri the Huguenot, is he Henri, the good king, with gentle eyes and a lovely white beard who played with his children like any man would have. The hypocrisy is almost too much to handle.

Francis suspect Duke of Épernon has played in the assassination, seeing how well he is doing now that the King is dead. He is half a King, Marguerite is greedy with power. Between the two of them, stands the soft-spoken Louis, a poor, orphaned child. Francis spends his time with him, as after all, he is the true King. It seems to outrage the queen, who gives herself bigger luxuries than before. Épernon scoffs each time he sees him, but Francis couldn’t care less.

He knows someone needs him. And that someone is too young to have the weight of a country on his shoulders, along with the pain of losing his father. Francis knows justice cannot be made. So he decides those who are left still need to be held.

Years passes again. War after wars, tragedies after tragedies. At the turn of the XXthcentury, Francis feels older than ever. He has been through so much, but he believes life has its little mysteries that make it worth it all—and, after all, he has lived through rather amusing things, too. As tired as he is, when he hears of the lost King Henri’s head being found, mummified, after all these years, Francis feels hope.

During the revolution, rioters had stormed through the royal necropolis of Saint Denis, cutting the King’s head and profaning the monarchs’ eternal rest. Even good King Henri. Apparently so well-preserved they had to parade him around like a circus monster, they had eventually dumped all Kings in a hole, without any respect for the dead.

Francis had never seen the King then. He didn’t want to.

He’s left for Montmartre without knowing what he’s awaited for. What, to find Henri’s actual head, with laughing eyes, white beard and a little smile, just as people draw him? To see Francis Claude’s face there, somehow? The head is nothing like his. Francis almost cries seeing it nonetheless, jaw tight. It has been three hundred years. What has time done to his old friend…

The skin is dry and pulled over bones. There is nothing of Henri, if not the vague shape of the face, Francis assumes. And a tiny, noticeable scar near his mouth. Francis chuckles darkly. Not even the legend of good King Henri and his poule-au-pot could have saved him from revolutionaries. He feels inadequate for a dead king.

If only he could be as tall as his Kings, he thinks. Maybe things would have been different, if he had stood taller.

**Author's Note:**

> What the fuck is a perfect court boy? This might be early, but during the time of Versailles, people actually preferred more feminine men with soft features. Francis is still young, hence, he has a girlish features.
> 
> Not sure if letters could go such long distances. Hopefully there was trade between the two countries. After all, the alliance ends only fourty-nine years before Henri IV’s reign starts and even then, their relationship is still close until 1903.
> 
> Henri the IVth‘s French. Yes. That is literaly the word they used to describe how well he wrote. Henri wrote letters to his mistresses in a very articulate and wonderful way. Honestly, he does deserve to have his shit called exquisite. It’s basically a fuckboy texting but with prettier sentences. I mean, honestly, if I get the alexandrine version of “haha and then what ;)” I would loosen the petticoats and lie down in the chicken. But I’m weird. Good French is my kink.
> 
> Poule-au-pot. That’s a real thing. Henri IV seriously wanted his people to eat boiled chicken every Sunday.
> 
> Who killed Henri IV? Well… actually that’s kinda complicated. People may tell you that Ravaillac was just a crazy dude who decided he’d murder the King, but evidence is there that someone may have plotted against Henri. After all, he wasn’t very loved when he was alive. Later, good king Henri’s legend was born. Actually, tyrannicide was a bigger thing before him… after Henri, royal assassinations dropped rather drastically.
> 
> Papa Henri? Actually that’s from an old movie lmao. Not sure if he wanted that. Fits the lovely legend, though. Henri did love his children very much though.
> 
> Mummified head and revolutionaries. The darker side of the revolution. (What, there was a lighter one?) Beside the guillotine, another horror was the profanation of the necropolis of Saint Denis’ basilisk. The opened up every coffins and Henri IV was particularly well-preserved. Enough so, that, apparently, people thought he’d just walk out of it. One guy used his sword to cut his beard and made himself a moustache out of it. It became an attraction: they placed the body outside for two days, with a wench even fanning the corpse. And then they dumped him with the rest of the Kings in a pauper’s grave. Vive la République ! Then some dude in Montmartre pretended that he had the head—it was lost, along with two other King’s. It apparently was his. And then not. And then yes. And then not. So we don’t really know.
> 
> Unloved King? Actually, it wasn’t so bad. Henri was popular at first, but his sporadic religion change made everything quite difficult. When he conquered his own Kingdom—people hated him when he was named King—, his popularity slowly got better. That is mainly due to his attitude during the siege of towns: as early as the Cahors Siege, Henri made sure the towns would not be pillaged and its inhabitants be unharmed. He was even pretty chill with his ancient enemies. We can also note he was very attached to his first religion, Catholicism, though he did not follow its rules too rigorously. Catholicism is for peasants anyway. A song—Vive Henri IV!—was even written for him, and was very popular in 1774, almost an unofficial theme for the French Royalty during the Restauration Era. Anyway, seems like he was rather controversial seeing they murdered his poor ass.
> 
> Henri the prolific fuckboy. Henri IV had about twenty million mistresses, all of whom I cannot talk too much about because there’s a lot to say. He was called “le Vert Gallant” because he’d clamour his love and was generally unable to control his dick. His liaison with Henriette d’Entragues probably caused his loss—he married Marie de Médicis instead of her… mah, nothing much. His favourite was probably Gabrielle d’Estrées, however, from whom he had three children. Before her, he was convinced to be sterile. She was an almost-queen, and was probably poisoned because the King wanted to make her children with him legitimate. Yeah. He covered her in jewels and all, so people hated her and called her a “dogs’ whore” and “garbage’s duchess”. You see how bad it was. He was also going to war because he had married his next mistress—Charlotte de Montmorency—to the rumoured homosexual Prince de Condé who… decided he wasn’t so gay and fled to the Spanish Netherlands with her. Henri died because of a boner. Henri, stahp.


End file.
